


Rescue

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Endings [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Gen Work, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had known ‘being kidnapped in an attempt to be sold as a (presumably sex) slave in Orlais’ was on his cards for the day, he would have eaten something first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rescue

Zevran was happy to be back in Antiva City after so long, despite the faint threat of the Crows always at his back. They were irrelevant right now; what mattered was that he had finally returned to the jewel in the crown of Antiva, with his lover in tow.

Theron had barely stirred from the apartment they’d rented for the first week, spending time getting over the seasickness and then acclimatising to the heat. But he was starting to venture out with the blond, to explore all the hidden treasures that only Zevran could have known about.

Today, they’d gotten as far as one of the marketplaces before the Dalish elf had started to flag, but had insisted Zevran could keep going if he wanted to while he relaxed in the shade. So, the Antivan had done just that, wandering down to the docks. And that was probably the cause of his current predicament, in fact. How the Crows would laugh if they could see how easily he'd been captured.

He managed to wriggle in the dust until he was in a sitting position, quite a feat with his hands and ankles tied. His head throbbed unpleasantly where it had been struck to render him unconscious, and he knew that his hair was a mess.

"So, to what do I owe this pleasure?" He asked conversationally as he looked round at his captors. Most of them were human, but he thought he could see one or two sets of pointed ears.

"A lot of Orlesian nobles pay good money for pretty elves." One of the humans closest to him replied, her expression twisting into something that possibly resembled a grin.

"Ah, not this again. I thought these roving bands of kidnappers had been muscled out by the Crows long before I left?" Zevran asked with a tired sigh. He shifted again, and realised that they'd actually been smart enough to take his daggers. Even the ones in his boots. Damn. That attention to detail and foresight demanded respect, however grudging.

He looked up at the woman who'd spoken, presuming from her forwardness alone than she was the leader. How embarrassing to be a Crow caught by a barely-organised rabble such as this. Well.  _Former_ Crow.

"Or are you simply a mob of unruly bandits who are trying to ride on the coattails of a feeble organisation of would-be slavers and brothel owners?" He asked dryly. That earned him a kick from one of the other men, and also answered his question.

“You two, keep an eye on him while I go find out where the carriage got to. If he starts talking too much again, shut him up, but don’t break bones or scar him. They’ll not pay as much if we have to drag him out covered in blood.” The woman ordered, turning and heading for the door while the rest of the small group bar two human men scattered.

Zevran sighed, and looked around. They were in a windowless back room of a warehouse, probably weren’t even too far from the water’s edge. He could hear the gulls crying as they flew around outside. The walls were thin wood, with plenty of gaps to allow the cool sea air in to allay the noon heat, and combined with the shadows it was almost enough to make the blond shiver.

Well, he would have to pass the time somehow…

“Have you ever been to Ferelden?” He asked the closest guard - if he could even be called that. The man looked down at him suspiciously, but Zevran continued, voice light. “A cold, miserable place that smells of wet dog and mud. I would not recommend it.”

“Shut it.” The other guard warned, sounding far more irritated than he should be with only one captive to guard.

“The thing I miss the _least_ about Ferelden would have to be the Blight and the darkspawn.” Zevran mused. “Horrible little creatures with poisonous blood running around everywhere. Truly annoying. More disgusting, when I eventually found out how some of them were made.”

The guard that had spoken glared at him.

“We don’t have anything to gag him with.” The other one sighed, and he sounded a lot younger than he looked.

“Why would you gag me? I am a lively conversation partner - or so I have been told.” Zevran asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“We’re here to guard him, not talk to him. Don’t want him escaping or somehow managing to kill us.” The grumpier guard told the younger, turning his back slightly on the bound elf as if by example; Zevran remembered how Alistair had used the move on Dudain several times when the dog had been whining for scraps or attention at inopportune times. Simply charming.

“Ah, my friends, it’s not _me_ you need to worry about killing you. Sadly.” He pointed out, leaning back as casually as he could with his ankles bound, tied hands awkwardly supporting his weight, knuckles digging into the dusty floor. “Something as large as a Blight happening in another country, stopped before it even truly started? Enough that there’s barely a whisper about it in Orlais, let alone here in fair Antiva?” Zevran shook his head. “Who do you think stopped it? The Chantry? The mages? Templars?” He noticed the nonplussed look the guards shared, and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “The Hero of Ferelden, of course! You never heard of him? For shame.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing to gag him with?” Ser Grumpy Guard asked. The younger guard shook his head, and then turned to Zevran.

“If I say yes, will you stop talking?” He asked hopefully, scratching the back of his neck.

“Do you know of him?” The blond asked, and the guard hesitated.

“Maybe a little. Rumours the sailors bring in.” He shrugged. “They said he killed the Archdemon barehanded, ate it’s heart while it was still beating.”

Zevran bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Did the sailors also say he was ten feet tall or rode a bear into battle?” He asked.

Ser Grumpy scowled at him again. Such a pretty face.

“No… Said he was an elf. Dalish.”

“Aren’t those the savages that live in the wilds and kill people for fun?” Ser Grumpy asked.

“Occasionally, yes. But the ones here in Antiva are more violent than the ones in Ferelden, I have learnt.” Zevran admitted with a shrug. “The Hero of Ferelden is not some noble human with a burning sword, but he is not an unwashed savage, either. He is a Dalish elf - a ranger. A hunter. I have seen him track a great bear for miles through the rain. The Dalish are stubborn like that. He will not give up once he finds a worthy quarry, trust me.”

Both the guards frowned at him now.

“You… Knew the Hero of Ferelden?” The younger guard asked slowly.

“No. I _know_ him. Quite well, in fact. He is very much alive, I can assure you.” Zevran looked around at the dusty warehouse room curiously. “And I think he might now be wondering where I got to, in fact, if he has not started looking for a trail already...”

The brief look of horror the guards shared made the former Crow’s day.

“You… You’re lying.” Ser Grumpy replied, and Zevran shrugged.

“I merely told you about the Hero of Ferelden, that he still lives. Perhaps you may be able to ask him yourself about eating an Archdemon’s heart? But, then again, he uses a bow rather than a sword; you probably won’t even know when he arrives until it is too late.” He replied calmly, letting out a soft hiss when the older guard grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head to one side, straining his neck and sending him to the floor again.

“What would the Hero of Ferelden be doing here in Crow territory?” The younger guard asked, but his voice sounded a little higher than it had previously. Was he growing nervous?

“Enjoying a tour of Antiva, same as any other sightseer? Perhaps even on his long-overdue _honeymoon_?”

That suggestion, however true it had been, earned Zevran another swift kick to the stomach that had him curling in on himself, coughing into the dirt.

The room grew quiet after that, Zevran deciding to try and bide his time as best he could. The ropes around his wrists were rough, rubbing his skin raw, and the knots around his ankles had been tied a little too tight, his toes were starting to go numb. If he had known ‘being kidnapped in an attempt to be sold as a (presumably sex) slave in Orlais’ was on his cards for the day, he would have eaten something from the marketplace and perhaps visited the latrine first.

How long had he been here anyway? A few hours? There were no windows, but he could peer through the gaps in the wall closest easily enough; it was still bright out, so there was probably much of the afternoon left.

The two guards had turned their backs to him at last.

“You don’t really think the Hero of Ferelden would be here in Antiva, do you?” The younger guard asked the other.

“No. The elf’s probably just trying to spook us for fun. Bet nothing he’s told us is the truth.” Ser Grumpy replied, and Zevran rolled his eyes.

“Oh. Does that include the Hero of Ferelden being alive, then?”

“Probably.”

Zevran sighed, disturbing a small cloud of dust in front of his nose.

“Tick tock, _mi amor._ ” He mumbled to himself in Ferelden.

“What was that?” Ser Grumpy barked, as if he was trying to be on some level of competence, and he turned to glower at the captive elf.

A choked cry from the front room had all three of them starting, and Zevran grinned even as the guards drew their swords.

“If I were you, I would surrender _now_.” The blond helpfully suggested from the floor as some other guard in the other room cried for backup.

“Maker’s arse. Stay here, keep him quiet. I’ll see what they’re all whinging about.” Ser Grumpy said, storming through to the other room.

“Hm. His funeral.” Zevran shrugged, managing to push himself up into a sitting position once more at last, made more difficult now he couldn’t really feel his feet beyond the prickling of his toes. He noticed the look of utter fear on the younger guard’s face, and sighed.

“I would highly recommend you drop your sword. And perhaps don’t stand so close to the door.” The blond suggested, looking up when he heard a scream of pain. There was a brief low hum, a faint ‘ _fwip-thunk_ ’ sound that Zevran knew very well, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

There was a minute of silence, and then Theron stepped silently through the doorway, bow raised and shoulders tensed for another roomful of bandits. He relaxed only slightly when he saw Zevran, shooting the young guard in the corner a glare.

The Dalish elf’s stern frown furrowed and distorted his _vallaslin_ , his biceps and shoulders were tauter than the bowstring he had drawn back almost to his chin with calloused fingers, and his skin shimmered with sweat, made his light tunic cling to him. He shifted his weight slightly, rolling it back onto a foot planted firmly on the floor as he took up a firing stance. The point of an arrow gleamed faintly red in the dusty air, the rest of the head as grey as his eyes. Cold, lethal. It would only take a second to let go of the bowstring. A second to kill the guard. The lad let out an odd whimpering sound, and dropped his sword with a clatter.

“As promised, the Hero of Ferelden, alive and well - if a little sweaty.” Zevran smirked, looking up at the ranger. He shook his head firmly in response to the questioning look the other elf gave him - his Antivan was progressing slowly, but surely - and it was only then that Theron lowered his bow, licking his too-dry lips.

“What took you so long?” He asked in Ferelden’s common tongue as Theron tucked the bloodied arrow back into his quiver and picked up the sword. In one fluid motion he tossed it into the opposite corner of the room behind him, lowering his bow to his side but keeping his grip tight.

“Docks were a maze, and the guards kept moving. It was hard to pick off stragglers.” The black-haired man shrugged bluntly, staring the human down briefly before he turned his sharp gaze to the trussed up blond.

“You don’t need to kill this one. We were having quite a nice discussion about you, even if he was a little misinformed.” Zevran said, glancing from elf to human and back.

“Please, ser, don’t kill me.” The guard pleaded in broken Ferelden, and both elves ignored him.

“Misinformed?”

“He was under the impression that you rode bears into battle and ate the Archdemon’s heart, the usual fare.”

Theron sighed deeply, but put his bow away at last.

“Get out of here.” He told the _shemlen_ , stepping away from the door and shaking his head in disgust as the young man all but ran for his life. Theron finally turned to Zevran, and looked down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, this really is becoming too common a sight, me on the floor at your feet. Completely at your mercy, waiting patiently for release...” The blond sighed dramatically.

“Ten minutes. I only ask for ten minutes to try and avoid fainting from the heat, and you go get yourself captured anyway.” The ranger complained as he knelt down, drawing a knife that he had often used for skinning animals to cut Zevran’s restraints.

“Yes, but this was a fun diversion, no? Can we do this again, get rid of another pesky bandit organisation?” Zevran asked, flexing his wrists when they were freed and carefully getting to his feet.

“So long as it’s at a cooler part of the day. Or, maybe you should play the rescuer for once?” Theron suggested with a faint smile as the two walked slowly past the scattered bodies and back out to the afternoon heat of Antiva City.

“Ah, yes, the freshly disembarked elven traveller taking his first steps in a foreign country. You would make excellent bait for any number of would-be slavers.” Zevran grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> aka The One Where Theron's Batman.  
> The next chapter to Unexpected will go up tomorrow, yaay!


End file.
